


Living History

by teamfreetitan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Heartbreak, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical References, Loneliness, M/M, rated for blatant sexual references but no actual sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 03:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17195390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreetitan/pseuds/teamfreetitan
Summary: For Arthur, July is always a rough time; the emotional scars from Alfred's revolution make him physically sick, and the loneliness can be striking for the few days before and after the Fourth of July. For Francis, it is not so much July so much as it is everything; the constant reminders around him show that he has lost, and show that while he lacks, everyone else has. For each, there is a loneliness to be fought off.





	Living History

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this without editing, so sorry if there are any typos, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

**July 1, 2026, 14:00 - Penzance, England**

Arthur sat in his bed - laid, really, lacking the energy to overextend himself by so much as sitting - while he smelled faintly the hot tea on his bedside table. The lavender scent reached his nose, only a slight comfort. He didn’t bother to reach over and grab it, sip it. He lacked the fervor or vitality to even try; absent-minded, he wanted to scold himself for allowing the beverage to go cold, yet made no move to right his wrong.

With a languid roll, he pushed himself onto his left side to watch the ocean as it broke against the shore. In and out, the waves rolled, crashed. Each crowned with a tiara of white foam, but he didn’t bother to find it beautiful.

His stomach was empty, not having even brought a crumb to his lips since through the morning and into the afternoon. Still, he didn’t feel its angry gnawing. He didn’t feel much of anything.

It was as if his body was trying to survive so the only way to do that was to cut off his mind. Despite the hollow feeling in his stomach, he didn’t worry. Despite his long, labored breaths, he didn’t worry. This was routine: he would be fine. Given the routine, he knew it would worsen, but, in traditional paradoxical fashion, he couldn’t find it in him to take the precautions necessary to avoid the worst of the storm to come.

Arthur rolled the other way. He hadn’t been able to stay still or find comfort.

Most nights, he found his bed to be the epitome of comfort. It was a queen size mattress, and, climbing in, he would simply  _ sink _ into it. The soft cushions puffed up against his body as he tossed himself back into it, the silky green sheets smooth and cold against the tense muscles lining his back, a relief against the knots piled up under his skin. Over the silk sheets, blankets and pillows lavishly draped the hunk of feathers and springs; he would cuddle with the pillows while he dreamt and in the frost of winter he would hike the blankets up to his chin.

Now, he couldn’t rest. Arthur would face the ocean with a blank stare for a few moments before deciding he couldn’t, and turning away again. He was like a little kid putting their hand on a burner to test how long it would take to burn.

He realized he had developed a stomach ache - from stress or hunder, he did not know - but, like before, did nothing. Didn’t want to pull himself out of bed to find food. Didn’t want to find medication to dull the throb. Didn’t want to try and calm himself.

The date was the first of July. Today was Matthew’s birthday. The Canadian wasn’t holding a huge party, but several friends were going over to eat and watch old hockey tapes. Francis mentioned it. That wasn’t the issue, no. He’d even sent a letter to Matthew to wish him a joyous day.

Really, the issue was Matthew’s southern neighbor and his boisterous superiority complex.

Arthur always got sick like this. Really, it was no big deal. 

Usually, it didn’t start until a day or two before Alfred’s birthday - his  _ independence _ day. Arthur was always fine to drop by Matthew’s for a few minutes, but when he had woken up, he had simply lost any will to fight. He hadn’t expected it until  _ tomorrow _ .

More rolling and shuffling and fixing of covers. He must have had a fever, too, because he was freezing in the July heat.

Alfred was (and this came as no surprise) incapable of shutting the hell up. He paraded around, shouting all about the festivities he had planned, the grandeur. Arthur, in his foggy, absent headspace, couldn’t quite remember why this was so particularly important. A certain time length? It must’ve been two hundred and fifty years, maybe. His two hundredth was a bash, and Arthur was sick for days afterward. The impending doom of the event reverberated in Arthur’s poor, empty skull cavity.

Fireworks and food and lights and loud music, so distinctly American. Independence,  _ so distinctly American _ . 

“Maybe pouring some more tea in the harbor, huh?” Alfred had joked at a world meeting, pushing Arthur’s arm. At least, he hoped he was joking. Arthur forced an uncomfortable laugh while the others all joined the young American in laughter.

That haughty confidence, so distinctly American.

The crippling humiliation of that defeat, the loss, the  _ loneliness _ … So distinctly… British.

At one point, Arthur had been so, so proud. The sun never sets on the British Empire, they had told him, and it really didn’t. America and Europe and Africa and Asia and Australia, and Arthur was so proud of himself. It was like a little middle finger to anyone who ever told him he’d never succeed, and a bigger middle finger to anyone who tried to conquer him. How could someone - other than Arthur, of course - conquer the whole world? No one would beat him.

All the sun shined on Alfred now, that much was clear. More importantly, everyone knew it.

The Revolutionary War was the greatest upset in history. An empire, destroyed by a little colony. The greatest military commander brought to his knees by a kid who had procured some bayonets. Arthur wasn’t oblivious to the snickers that followed him around in that time. 

Arthur could have killed him. Though Alfred paraded his strength like he was unstoppable, they shared a moment which Arthur doubted anyone else knew; their prides would have halted them from uttering the tale to any others. Alfred had been absolutely pliable under Arthur’s power, and one finger pull of the trigger would have done him in and halted his entire revolt. But Arthur didn’t want to fight - it was expensive and hard and there had been plenty of fighting in Europe - so he retreated. He’d made some mistakes as he had gone lax on the colony, expecting much less, but at the end of the day he had chosen his humiliation and pain over Alfred’s death.

And pain it was, as he could hardly get out of bed. Hardly eat, sleep, drink, breathe. All he could do was mourn something which had been gone for centuries.

Arthur grabbed his phone from the nightstand, expending the energy to reach over. He swiped to find Kiku’s number.

“Hey, are you busy?”

 

* * *

**July 1, 2026, 22:00 - Paris, France**

Francis’ keys jingled in the lock to the chateau home as he tried to will the door to comply with his wants. He yawned, surprisingly tired. His evening had been spent at Matthew’s in a pleasant night of birthday celebrations; only a couple people were invited, as he preferred a smaller gathering, so Francis congregated with Alfred, Maximo, and Matthew for cake, soda, conversation, and sports. Arthur was invited, too, but never showed up, providing not so much as a text to tell them he wouldn’t be coming.

Matthew had frowned, saying, “He’d sent me this card, but he must have forgotten to come. Maybe my invitation didn’t reach him in time…” 

The Cuban man had comforted Matthew, telling him that maybe he would just be late, and Alfred, surprisingly calm, had slung an arm around his shoulders to tell him, “It’s fine, bro, that just means more cake for us!”

The Canadian parties were rarely ragers, and only so if Alfred went a bit off the walls. By late evening, Francis had reached his home, full with food and ready to rest.

Near the door, he toed of his black, flat shoes and placed them by the coat closet, where he shed his long, blue jacket to find a home. Slipping easily on the hanger, he put the overthrow in the closet, impeccably organized. Everything had a home - his clothes were organized by color, and his shoes (that weren’t his every day shoes) by style. His books were alphabetical by author’s last name and his cooking ingredients by type.

That was why, when he went to undress for bed, his eyes darted to the out of placed objects in his personal closet. His teeth were brushed and his hair pulled back into two short braids (they helped his hair get that wave he liked) when he went to undo the button up he’d worn for the day. He tossed the white fabric into his laundry bin, and then followed his trousers before they were replaced by pajama pants. On the shelf at the top of his closet, his boxes were out of place, one being shifted sideways and mostly off the shelf, holding on by a metaphorical fingertip.

He reached a hand up to push it back; his height made it so he could physically reach everything in the closet, even if he needed to go up on his tippy-toes to do so. As he maneuvered the box, the one stacked on top of it tumbled out of place, splattering pathetically on the floor with a loud  _ plomp. _

Francis wasn’t young; he knew this. Yet, he maintained a bitter sweet sentimentality. Though his country was wonderful, despite not being as adept at war as some of his neighbors - he was most proud of his culture and cuisine - he knew that the modern France was based on a long line of history before it, and every moment the nation breathed was a step from that but allowed by each proceeding breath in history.

 

From this, he had taken his most precious memories and organized them into a growing series of boxes, labelled by century. The box which fell happened to be the seventeenth century. 

With gingerly actions, he pushed the papers together again. Pictures hadn’t been a thing then, but he could vividly remember the curves of the world, her soft breaths, and the way she danced in space, careless to the drama which unfurled upon her. There was war, then. All kinds of fighting, as Europe vowed to obtain spots in the Americas. Antonio - and the Spanish Empire - went berserk in the Americas. Francis and Arthur were, then, more reserved. Francis preferred the north of the continents, trading and observing the animals; Francis looked fondly through the nature sketches and notebooks documenting aspects of the new lands.

Arthur had plopped down a few trading posts himself, but was too preoccupied in Europe to mind much, and then too preoccupied with the sea. Francis placed another notebook on top of the pile; this was his log from when he had joined the man on one of his sea voyages. It had been a while since he had so much as thought about the other’s Golden Age of Piracy. Francis flipped open the bound pages to a paper which gave a drawing of the tranquil sea over the bow of the ship. Loopy French letters elaborated on the voyage. He closed it, putting another stack of bound pages on top. He dumped the memories into the box and put the box right back where it belonged, as if it had never fallen, and as if he had never been reminded of those times.

He ought to get some rest.

 

* * *

**Summer, 1675, The Atlantic Ocean**

The boat swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like a rocking chair in motion. Under the deck, in the captain’s room, there hung a hammock, ropes ties together in a lattice, with a thick, fur blanket on top. Thanks to the blanket, the ropes didn’t dig into Francis’ bare skin; the bed was rather comfortable, despite what he would have believed. Big enough for two, and warm, Francis wished to lay there all morning. Arthur had a good taste in bedding.

Speaking of Arthur, Francis turned to the side to find him. Empty. The boots and clothes of his which had been laid on the chest at the end of the room were also gone, leaving the garments of Francis alone. Sighing, he pulled on the pants and button up and long socks and boots. As an afterthought, he brought his blue jacket as well, slinging it on over each arm but not buttoning it.

He found Arthur standing on the bow of the ship, watching the clear blue sky mesh with the clear blue water. He looked oddly proud.

“Good morning,” Francis said, stepping up to him. His hand fell onto Arthur’s right hip as he stepped to his left, effectively pulling Arthur into his arms. Francis tilted his head on to the other’s shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Thinking,” he responded, mind clearly off somewhere else.

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “About?”

Arthur’s eyes were glazed over as he stared into the sea. “I’m going to rule the entire world.” Francis almost laughed: Arthur had a small, little island in Europe and a couple trading posts. What was he going to do. “The whole thing,” he insisted. “My empire will be endless. And not a thing is going to get in my way.”

Francis retreated, pulling his arm away from Arthur. His eyes had a controlling look which he had never seen before. A determination, almost. 

“I’m… going to go get breakfast, okay, honey?”

“Yes, Francis, do that.”

 

* * *

 

**July 4, 2026, 21:15 - Washington, D.C.**

If there was one thing Alfred knew how to do, it was extravagance. That much had been clear his entire life; though he had high ambitions, they were often eclipsed by the methods he went about them. When he wanted to grow his country, he quickly occurred the entire continent of land, tripling his size. When he wanted to boost his economy, he quickly became one of the largest global manufacturers. And when he wanted to throw a party, he threw a damn good party.

Though it was the twenty-first century, Francis could almost see the twentieth century parties in the roaring 20s, and, given that a hundred years had passed since then, maybe it was appropriate. It was almost a Gatsby party of sorts, with endless food - seriously, where did it come from? - and champagne and half a million other things, too.

Alfred’s parties were the sort of party that no one missed. Some were there for the free food and drinks and fun (that’s where Francis fell), some because they actually cared about Alfred, and some because they were more worried about  _ not _ showing up. 

Most people were part of the last category.

In fact, the only person Francis knew that he didn’t see there was Arthur. No surprise there. The Brit hadn’t showed up to a single party in all of history. Embarrassed, probably, and he always got weird when it was brought up. Weirder than he did with Canada or Australia or any of his other colonies. Francis could remember how ardently he had fought to have Alfred as his little brother… and to have it denounced so forcefully by the younger nation…

Of course, Francis had been right by Alfred’s side the entire time. He could still remember the look of defeat on Arthur’s face.

He felt a little guilty about it. But not  _ too _ guilty.

Not guilty enough to move him to shoot Arthur a message to see if he was alright, or even ask what he was up to. Not guilty enough to stop him from grabbing a margarita from the waiter who walked by, using the red toothpick to stir the neon blue liquid as he walked through the giant yard. There was a DJ on one end, playing music, and the guests mulled in the grass, not dancing so much as swaying. Near the front, Francis spotted Alfred, standing next to Ivan.

Oh, right, Francis had forgotten about that. The fact that it had slipped from might could have indicated how loud the music was pounding, or maybe the strength of the fruity drink he pressed to his lips.

The two nations had announced that they were, in fact, in a relationship. Imagine the chaos that caused. Alfred and Ivan - who used to hate each other through and through - were not only friends, but  _ lovers _ . Francis watched as Alfred reached onto his tippy-toes to kiss Ivan, in a detached but passionate manner, somehow. Alfred still seemed engrossed in the party, his fingers running across the table until they reached a plate of tiny sandwiches, one of which he picked up. When their tongues finally broke apart - which there was a lot of, tongue - Alfred pressed the food into his mouth. He turned to say something to someone walking by, before looking back at his boyfriend.

Francis scoffed into the margarita.

He surveyed the party with a quick once over. There were Feliciano and Ludwig standing on one side, with Yao and some Europeans standing near them. The Nordics. The Baltics - more scared of Ivan than Alfred, really. When he looked back up, Alfred and Ivan were gone. 

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to see Kiku. Francis smiled. “Can you help me?” asked the Japanese man. 

“What do you need?”

“Have you seen Alfred?” Francis nodded. “Can you find him and drag him down here to let him know that the fireworks are starting soon. Not that he’d miss it, but… You know how he is. Sometimes he just disappears, or whatever.” Francis easily agreed; it couldn’t be too difficult, and he had just seen the two run off together, so they couldn’t have gotten far.

It turned out that the house was larger than he thought it was.

Eventually, what must have been ten minutes later, he slunk down a hallway, and before he reached the ajar door, he heard voices. Bingo, he thought as he heard Alfred’s voice. Just before he pushed the door open, he stopped himself, listening to the two intermingling voices; he wasn’t intending to peep or eavesdrop, but he had been sent up here to find him and was in a tough spot. He wanted to complete the favor Kiku had asked of him, but he didn’t want to entirely intrude.

There was a quiet whimpering.

Maybe they would finish soon, he decided as he lingered outside the door.

“You better stay after everyone else goes home-”

“I was planning to.”

“-and fuck me properly instead of giving me a shitty, five-minute handjob at a party.”

Ivan’s voice popped back in, asking, “Do you want me to stop, Fredka?”

“Of course not! But, God, you better do me so well, alright? Deep and hard and rough, Ivan. Ivan, I’m-” The sentence was interrupted by a whimpering, which was interrupted by what Francis could only assume was kissing. More whimpering. There was shuffling of fabrics. Was that a zipper? Francis hoped so as he knocked on the door. 

“One second, one second!” Alfred yelled.

Within a few seconds, the door was swung open by Alfred, who stood in the doorway, looking a little bit disheveled. “Heya, Francis! What’s up?”

“Kiku asked me to find you and remind you the fireworks are starting in a few minutes.”

The American’s face lit up. “I had forgotten about that!” He glanced back at Ivan. Francis doubted he had genuinely forgotten, more like he had been  _ distracted _ , but he kept the thought to himself. “Thanks, Francis, see you down there!”

“Mhm,” Francis murmured, turning around and slipping away. 

The first firework went off as he slipped through the front door. The following bursts were just as loud, just as punctual, drowning out the sound of his footsteps as he hurried out of the house and down the sidewalk, distancing himself from Alfred’s home. He didn’t even turn back to see the black sky lit up with red, white, and blue.

No, he didn’t turn back at all.

 

* * *

**July 5, 2026, 0:49 - Penzance, England**

Arthur was laying on cold tile; somewhere in the evening, he had lost his shirt, and he could only assume it was when he was throwing up, yanking it off to avoid dirtying it too much. He had been hot, too, burning up. But now, he was shivering. It was a pathetic sight to see: Arthur’s left forearm was pressed to the toilet seat, and his face against his arm. His face was bright red, and the corners of his eyes were still dewy. He was wearing nothing but pajama pants, and each breath was heavy still. He didn’t want to move, which was in part due to his exhaustion and in part due to the fear that he might again begin to throw up.

He was phasing in and out; July fourth was always the worst day of his sickness, but now that it was officially over, he would hopefully start improving. Yet, that didn’t change that he hadn’t slept in over twenty four hours and still felt shitty.

Somewhere in his phasing out, he felt firm, cold hands on his arms, pulling him up. Arthur grunted, pressing his eyes closed tightly as the lights came on - he had forgotten he was in the dark. The hands steadied him as he swayed.

“You’re pathetic,” the voice said.

“Maybe,” Arthur agreed. His fingers found the corner of the counter so he could hold himself upright while the person began to help cleaning him up. Peeking an eye open, he glimpsed blonde hair and pink lips pursed together in a frown. It seemed to Arthur to be… Francis? But that couldn’t right. Hell, for all Arthur knew, he was actually alone, and having some sort of weird fever dream. Why would Francis be here, anyway? He’d never bothered to help Arthur out of his July fits, and had even helped the American wanker get independence in the first place.

Regardless, Arthur didn’t complain as maybe-Francis dipped a wash rag under icy, running water and brought the rung rag to his face. The cool water felt surprisingly good against the creases of his lips, which we were sure were probably crusted with vomit. His lips were dry and cracked and burning. He let maybe-Francis deal with it.

He still had his eyes closed, still not trusting them to open without blinding or dizzying him. A comb brushed his hair back, getting out knots which had been there after days of hardly getting out of bed. Arthur grunted as the comb got stuck, and it took the nimble fingers of his caretaker to remove.

“Open your eyes,” demanded the voice. When Arthur only grunted in response, it prompted, “What if I turn off some of the lights, okay?”

Arthur wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he felt the person lean forward, brushing against him, and when he leaned back, the room was dimmer. Dim enough for Arthur to peek an eye open, and his pupils dilated sharply to the exposure. Francis hovered in front of him, holding two lightbulbs he had removed from the sockets, decreasing the light by half.

Arthur dug his fingernails into the bottom of the counter. This was a lot of light.

Francis placed the bulbs gingerly on the bare counter, motioning for Arthur to follow him. Arthur did, slipping his arm into Francis’ to hold himself upright. He still found it difficult to look too far up without it shooting him in the head. Soon, Francis had set him on the edge of the bed and pressed a glass of water into his hands.

He stared up at the Frenchman with a confused, expectant look.

“Arthur, if you do not drink that water, Lord help me-”

The Brit lifted the glass with shaky fingers to press the edge to his lips, swallowing in tiny sips. His stomach was beyond empty after so much vomiting that he felt every icy drop as it fell down his esophagus and froze his stomach. It didn’t make him feel better instantly, but it woke him up a little bit, the icy zing pulling his brain to attention. Though he still felt out of it - and admittedly, super grosss - he felt a little more cognisant with the drink in him.

As he glanced up from the glass, he saw Francis rummaging in his closet. When he turned back, he had a thin, cotton t-shirt. Francis set the glass on the bedside table and motioned for Arthur to lift his arms.

“‘M fine,” he mumbled, reaching for the shirt.

“And that’s why you skipped your brother’s birthday? Because you’re fine?” By the sound of it - emphasized by the stern look in his eyes - Francis was not in the mood to take anyone’s bullshit. Arthur reluctantly lifted his arms to have the fabric pulled over him, the soft fabric nice against his skin, and undeniably nicer than the cold porcelain of the toilet.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he noted. 

“I don’t sleep on the fourth,” Arthur explained. “Nightmares.”

Francis frowned, pushing him towards and into the covers. “Then rest. It’s not the fourth anymore.” Arthur head hit the pillow, and he was asleep instantly.

 

* * *

**June 20, 1940 - London, England**

Since the war had started, Arthur was staying in London. Faster to get mail and calls, he insisted, and closer to travel to reach continental Europe. Faster. Better. Easier. And he needed at least something to be a little bit easy right now, with all the fighting and injuries and death. He needed something to be easy right now.

But, unfortunately, that turned sour when Francis showed up on his doorstep. Frantic knocking urged him to put down the war strategy book he had been reading and rush to the door, where he found Francis, bloody, unable to stand upright.

He led Francis to the couch in the living room. Arthur was certain Francis was getting blood on his couch, but he was unable to care right then. He simply tried to shift him to a semi-comfortable position as he ran to get a rag to wash the blood off of his face and body. Where were the injuries? On his face, a cut near his temple. As he pried back the blood stained shirt and washed his chest, another cut along his ribs. Luckily, neither would be fatal. Only painful. The wetness against the wounds only brought more tears to his eyes, but Francis would have to deal if he wanted these wounds treated.

It took a little while, but when Francis was calmed and cleaned up, with bandaged around his head and chest, Arthur asked, “What happened?”

“Ludwig,” he said. “I… I surrendered. He was going to kill me.”

Francis was sure the twitch in Arthur’s eyebrow was not a happy one. And he didn’t blame him; the War to End All Wars was bad enough, and they had all suffered there. Now, it was just Arthur and Matthew. No one else had joined yet, despite appeals to Yao, Ivan, and Alfred. With Francis out, Arthur was alone in Europe, and with Francis out, Ludwig surely would turn his attention to the Brit.

“He was going to kill me,” Francis repeated, hoping Arthur would understand.

“It’s fine,” Arthur said. 

It definitely wasn’t fine, but Francis didn’t say another word until late in the evening. Arthur had fed him dinner (and one could rest assured that this was a serious matter, because Francis didn’t even make a wisecrack about his bland cooking). He was placed in a guest bedroom, with extra bandages in the bathroom just in case. He remained silent, downcast.

Until, in his sleep, the nightmares came. Flashing images of France before he surrendered. France before he fled. And France in the first war, and all the damage there. He could not go through that again. Couldn’t let his people continue to suffer.

Face red and puffy from post-nightmare sobbing, he slid into Arthur’s room. It was still light in there; Arthur had fallen asleep sitting up, a book still in his lap, with the light still buzzing on the bedside table beside him. Francis crept over, pulling the book off his lap and tucking the nearby bookmark between the pages. He noticed it was a German book, but Francis would confess that his German was too rusty to understand any part of the title, let alone the text. He set it on the bedside table and flipped the light off, shuffling around the bed and crawling in it.

Arthur jumped, swinging his arms over and hitting Francis’ shoulder roughly.

“Hey, hey, hey! It’s just me, it’s Francis!” the Frenchman yowled.

“Sorry, sorry,” apologized the other. “Why… are you in here?”

“I…” he began, frustrated with the way his voice cracked as he spoke. “I’m having nightmares. And everything hurts. And, I suppose, I just… wanted to be with you.”

The words flew off his tongue before he could fully consider saying them, consider the repercussions of saying them out loud. It had been a long time since there was anything beyond allyship between the two nations. Anything more had fizzled out centuries before, and Francis had taught himself to be okay with that, dabbling with others in Europe, and out of Europe. Arthur had become too preoccupied with international affairs to have a relationship, and Francis was just fine with that, merci beaucoup. He’d gotten power hungry, the way nations tended to get. Even Francis would confess falling victim to that in his life. Yet, for Francis, a small sliver of him missed whatever had been there. And it wasn’t a lie, that he wanted to be with Arthur; his room was empty and scary and lonely, and Francis needed someone to hold him - needed Arthur to hold him.

And the other did just that, shuffling so as to wrap his left arm around Francis, pulling him closer. Francis laid his bandaged head against the other’s shoulder, and Arthur brought a hand up to card through his hair. He felt almost safe, almost comfortable, and might have felt so entirely had it not been for the sinking in his stomach, the constant, resounding reminder that something was entirely, terribly wrong.

He did not kiss Arthur, though the thought crossed his mind. He did not try to hold his hand. He did nothing except for lay in his left arm, head on Arthur’s shoulder on the crook of his neck, letting Arthur play with his hair. 

When Arthur awoke in the morning, Francis was gone, leaving only a note on the kitchen table:  _ I may have failed the war effort, but I cannot fail my people. It’s my duty to fight back, even if it is a lost cause. X _

 

 

* * *

 

__

**August 25, 1944 - Paris, France**

Arthur had not realized that that night in his arms would be the last time he would see Francis for years. Four years for a nation was hardly anything, but in times of war, Francis may as well have been gone for centuries. When he wasn’t strategizing or fighting (which took most of him time), he could not help but wonder what would happen when  _ he  _ would save Francis.

He hoped it would be something heroic, not to start sounding like Alfred. In his mind, when he reached Paris, Francis would be standing on the front lines, still resisting the Axis as he had promised in that letter those years before. And he would see Arthur, and he would fight, and they would be reunited with needy, close hugs, that kind of hugs which said sorry for leaving and sorry for not being there for so long. And they would make their way to the beach afterward and share a cigar, and Arthur would tell Francis that he was glad he was okay; it would be a sweet moment in a series of pain and in their banting relationship. Arthur needed to tell Francis something kind.

That was not what happened.

When he, Alfred, and Matthew arrived in France, Francis was not resisting in the front lines. Actually, when they reached Paris, Francis was laying on the ground, barely alive. His skin was more purple than beige, and his hair was uneven, as it it had been hastily and unintentionally cut; what was left of the blonde was actually red and brown, caked to his face. His clothes were ripped, and only a few of his wounds actually had bandages; they were stiff and dried. His breaths were short and he was unable to speak.

Arthur could not say that he had ever seen Francis look worse, quite frankly.

As Alfred and Matthew pushed back the fronts, he found a place for Francis, cleaning him up as he did on the day Francis had surrendered. This was a much more daunting task; the bruised skin hid cuts and he feared that one wrong move would actually snap Francis into pieces. 

And Paris was liberated. That was enough to stir him, but it took several days for Francis to really come around. Arthur leaned over him as he changed bandages, and Francis brought a hand up to bring through his hair. He should have kissed the Frenchman; he didn’t.

 

* * *

**July 5, 2026, 9:24 - Penzance, England**

When Arthur rolled out of bed, nine hours later and certainly feeling better, Francis was sitting at his kitchen table, flipping through albums. Rather than being sorted by date, Arthur sorted his by category of the contents of each. As Francis had dug through his storage area to find them (he had spent the better part of the night rummaging through Arthur’s house, and found some things he wasn’t sure he wanted to know existed), he had found albums with names like ‘Royalty’ or ‘Colonies’ (of course excluding Alfred, who had his own album). Francis’ fingers leafed through one titled ‘Francis.’

Each of his albums was overflowing; the width the pages began as were soon increased, with photos pasted to the pages, or ribbons denoting important pages, or letters shoved between pieces of paper. As Arthur stumbled into his kitchen, he saw that Francis happened to be reading over an unsent letter.

The letter was written during his Piracy Age, during the peak of their relationship, before they both became more focused on colonies or America or whatever the hell it happened to be that year. While Francis was in France, admittedly not doing too hot economically, Arthur was travelling back and forth, and the long voyages gave him ample time to think. As they pushed through the eighteenth century, their relationship fumbled; Arthur spent most of his time overseas, and Francis was going broke, and they never saw each other, and any time together resulted in endless fighting. After almost a year of silence, Arthur received a note to break things off.

This letter was written before then, written before things put a sour taste in his mouth, and if Arthur knew anything, it was that Francis absolutely  _ could not read it _ . 

He paced over, picking up the cover of the album and slamming it shut, stifling the papers locked within.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur snapped.

“I had been reading,” Francis replied with an irritated calmness. “And I’d been looking through this album. It’s the only reason I’m here, anyway.” Which was true. He had been roused, something at the party, maybe Alfred, to look back and find this whatever it was, and  _ see _ it fully.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “How did you know about-”

“I didn’t know about these specifically, but I was hoping I’d find some photos or drawing or anything.”

The Brit reached out a hand to pull the album off the table and tuck it under his elbow. “I don’t know what makes you think that you can just break into my house, and start looking through my  _ private _ albums, and eat my cereal-” he interrupted himself to wave at the bowl in front of Francis, “-and, and! Whatever! And please refrain from breaking into my house in the future!”

Francis held up a key. “You gave this to me a while ago, so it wasn’t breaking in, first of all. Second of all, dipshit, you should be thankful that I did so you didn’t die suffocating on your own fucking vomit.”

Arthur turned to go return the album to its place, and Francis followed him down the stairs as he talked.

“As if you give a damn. This happens every year and you’ve never even bothered to call before, so don’t act as if you’re so helpful and caring. We both know that I could have died last night and you wouldn’t have cared.” He slid the album onto the shelf, in between ‘First World War’ and ‘German Nations.’ “Or does the nineteenth century not ring a bell? You were out to bloody kill me with your own hands, then.” As he turned around, Arthur almost slammed into Francis.

“You act like we hate each other, but that’s not true. It’s never been true. Mostly never.”

Arthur pushed past him and stalked up the stairs. “Leave,” he said. 

Francis picked up his keys and jacket and slipped out the door without so much as another word spoken.

 

* * *

 

**Summer, 1745 - Atlantic Ocean**

_ My Dearest, Francis, _

_ The ocean, I have come to learn, is a lonely frontier. Since I have begun to develop colonies in the Americas, where my little Alfred it thriving, and elsewhere, I have been travelling alone, between company in Europe and company in America. The ocean, this year, has been surprisingly calm, and I have been able to traverse it without incident. Really, I do believe you would enjoy the gentle rocking of the ocean as you sleep, a physical lullaby for the many evenings you reject my offers to serenade you (for which I don’t blame you, as I myself would not want to listen to my songs either). _

_ I do miss you, and will confess I am still bewildered as to your rejection to accompany me to America on this voyage. You yourself have colonies up north, and have been along many travels with me; the Age of Piracy is a time I hold quite dear to my heart, Francis. Do not get me wrong, for I do love my kid brother with my entire heart, but I would not mind having another night in your arms, travelling the world. Or do you not feel the same, after the Nine Years War and Spanish Succession? _

_ I take it to be the latter, given the new developments from my time in Europe. I fear I’ve been neglecting America, for every time I stop by Europe, we merely bicker and bicker and bicker on in Roderich’s home. The War of Austrian Succession has not been pleasant for me. I shall say, to these pages alone, that I’m sick of fighting with you, but I cannot help myself. I must apologize, even if only here, for that; for as much as I do love you, Francis - and I really do, and would much be obliged to take you in wedlock one day, even if only in my dreams - part of my heart is also destined to disagree. Perhaps it is true, what they say in love, that opposites attract. All I know is that, even when you anger me to the heavens and back, my heart is still filled with love for you. _

_ Perhaps this will explain some of my anger: I fear that you do not reciprocate my feelings. You haven’t said it aloud, if you feel in such a manner, and you are eager to fight. Yet, a piece of my heart remains hopeful, for I am the same way. _

_ If you wonder why I am so romantic sounding - or perhaps merely honest - in this letter, it is because I have no intentions of sending it to you. In the off chance which you read it, it will most probably be in the instance of my death, which will spare me from any backlash should you not reciprocate my feelings, for I know not how to address this or tell you the depths of the wells of love I have for you. It is so simple to write, yet my mouth cannot form these words, or even any romanticisms, the way your lips can. _

_ Yours, Arthur _

 

* * *

**May 30, 1431 - Rouen, France**

Francis watched, silently. The men tossed debris - ashes - into the Seine River. After they had left and moved on, Francis leaned out from his hiding spot a little bit more, adventuring close enough to see the pounding water.

He wrapped his arms up around himself, cradling himself as if he were a child; as he did so, he began to sob in loud, racking sobs which shook his entire frame.

_ “Dors, Jeanne,” _ he whispered.

 

* * *

**July 14, 2026, 12:10 - Paris, France**

Francis’ phone vibrated with a text message. Alfred, who had texted him to wish him a happy birthday early in the morning, had sent another message:  _ Hey, beautiful, I love you. You ready for tonight? I totally am. _

Francis responded with question marks.

_ Omg, did you forget?? I’ll remind you… Me, on my knees, on front of that pretty cock of yours. I love you so much, Ivan. Gonna make you feel so good... _

Francis sent  _ Check who you’re texting _ .

_ FUCK SORRY FRANCIS IM SO SORRY. _

_ Don’t worry, MDR. Enjoy your evening. _

 

* * *

**July 14, 2026, 20:36 - Paris, France**

There came a loud rapping at Francis’ front door. He pulled himself out from under several blankets (despite the summer heat) to swing the wood open and reveal his visitor. Though he might have been able to ignore interaction with others by turning his phone off and the loud parades by shutting his blinds, he could not so blatantly ignore a visitor at the door. Champagne glass in hand, he opened the door.

It was Arthur. 

“Happy birthday,” Arthur said, holding out a bottle of champagne.

In an obligatory manner, Francis stepped to the side to let Arthur in the door. He stepped in and toed off his shoes near the door. Francis set the gift next to his already open bottle of champagne on the coffee table and retreated to his blanket cocoon he had formed.

Arthur plopped down on the other end of the couch. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he began, “why are you sitting in the dark, drinking, alone, on your birthday?”

“Tell me, Arthur, what am I known for?”

He looked over, where Francis had taken another wine glass from the space under the coffee table where they were lined up for easy access. The Frenchman had finished off the bottle in the glass before he placed it in his guest’s hand. After a sip, Arthur sarcastically responded, “Um, being an asshole?”

“As a nation, or perhaps my capital specifically? This is a serious matter, Arthur, so don’t joke. Paris, the city of…?”

“Love?”

Francis nodded. “Indeed, mon ami, the city of love.  _ Allegedly _ . And it’s true, the things which make it so. Beautiful lights, stunning architecture, sweet foods, and soft petals of flowers. You’ve been on the Seine in the evening-” Neither had to state that this was merely because they had spent more than an evening there together, hidden in those little boats… “-so you must know how romantic it can be. I can recite love poetry forwards and backwards in my sleep. I have not always been the best in other endeavors - I trust I don’t need to remind you of the 40s? - but in a sense of romance, I know what I’m doing.”

Arthur gave him a look of raised eyebrows as if to tell him to stop tooting his own horn and get on with the point. He didn’t say so out loud, though, only let Francis open the next bottle of champagne, pour a glass, sip some, and continue when he was ready.

“So I must be the biggest hypocrite this world has ever seen.”

Around his glass, Arthur asked, “How so?”

“Well, I just continue to see everyone else having love - Alfred loves Ivan, it’s obvious. I’m supposed to be the one to represent love and romance, and yet, I am entirely devoid of such. I must be the loneliest man alive.”

Of course, in traditional English manner, this was the perfect time for Arthur to say the wrong thing. In all of his time attempting to be a gentleman, he had never quite managed to take the bite out of his tongue. Under his breath, but all too loud in the silent room, he told Francis that at least  _ he _ had not lost his greatest colony because  _ that _ was the loneliest moment in a nation’s life.

Francis wagged the glass at him. “No, Arthur, you’re not doing  _ this _ on my birthday.”

“Doing what?” he responded.

“ _ This _ . Being all argumentative. I’ll tell you what we’ve all been thinking for over two centuries: get over Alfred. It sucked, I know, but you’re on good terms now, so stop acting like it’s a recent wound and get your life together. You act as if none of your other colonies existed, but Alfred wasn’t the only one. God, and don’t start with the lonely shit. Everyone knows you were fucking Seychelles until the 70s, and you’ve got brothers, and you know what, Arthur? You had  _ me _ . God knows you were far more upset about losing Alfred than you ever were about losing me-”

“That’s not true.”

“-But you’ve always had someone. I haven’t. I lost you, when I was in love with you, and you were hardly upset, too preoccupied with your stupid little colonies. I haven’t so much as made out with anyone since we broke up in the 1700s, let alone had sex with anyone. I have no brothers. I spent years alone during the Revolution, and then again during the Second World War. The only way you can say you’re alone is if you’re really so  _ blind _ and  _ stupid _ as to not look two meters in any direction, and I would give up everything for that, because here I am, on my birthday, getting drunk in the dark because I really have nothing better to do.”

By the time his rant was over, he was thankful the lights  _ were _ out, because he was on the verge of tears, and didn’t want Arthur to see him in such a state. He set down his empty wine glass.

He heard a clinking of Arthur mirroring his motions. At first, Francis thought he was refilling his glass - it would not have been a surprise - but all of a sudden, he felt Arthur lean forward, setting both of his hands on the edge of the blanket cocoon Francis had been using as a barrier. 

“Do you still feel that way?”

“What?” responded Francis.

“Do you still feel that way? In love with me?”

Francis receded into himself. Before, his words had caused an inundation between the alcohol and the frustration, but now, he seemed at a standstill, sobered by the serious nature of the discussion and halted by a wall blocking his emotions. The truth was…

“I don’t know. I think so. Sometimes I can’t tell. I never really moved on, and anyone I even thought was attractive, nothing happened between them and I, so I just continued going back to you. I wouldn’t allow myself to feel it as much, because things would turn sour so fast, but… sometimes you do little things and it’s still there, oui? I don’t know what answer you’re hoping for...”

His mind lost its train of thought as soft fingers found his face in the dark. The pads of Arthur’s fingers ran across his jawline, hooking under Francis’ chin to hold it in place. He felt almost as if Arthur were inspecting him, through the shroud of darkness, trying to find cracks in the facade, or cracks in the answer, trying to see if Francis would crumble under his touch.

But, Francis quickly realized, he hadn’t been doing any of those things, or at least not with such the negative connotation he feared.

Arthur’s lips silently closed the gap between them, finding Francis’. Francis let in a little gasp in surprise, but wasn’t unwelcome to the touch. Though it took a second to register with him what was happening, when he processed it, he unfurled his fingers from the blanket burrito to touch Arthur’s face back, steadying him and deepening the kiss. The other man leaned half over him, so Francis provided some balance for the man he was kissing. When Arthur pulled back, they both quietly breathed deep breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, leaning back to his seat. “I don’t know what came over me. I suppose I should also apologize for everything that came over me before, too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Back before we broke up. I… I don’t want you to think I wasn’t upset when we broke things off, which was totally my fault in the first place, since I was so  _ distracted _ in America, and didn’t care for you enough, even when I just wanted to  _ kiss _ you. And just threw myself into it even more to avoid facing the hurt, but Francis, I  _ loved you too _ . I’ve just been so stupid and caught up in everything else and-”

Arthur stopped talking as cool fingers found his. The two men interlocked fingers, with Arthur’s hands on top and Francis’ fingers sliding in under, holding him steady.

“I won’t say I wasn’t hurt,” Francis said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not… repairable. That is, of course, if that’s what you want, and it’s been a long time, so-”

“Francis.” The Frenchman looked up at the silhouette who interrupted him. “It is. It is what I want. I want to try again.”

This time, it was Francis who leaned forward to press their lips together.

 

* * *

**July 15, 2026, 9:21 - Paris, France**

Francis woke up on the same couch he had fallen asleep on.

His head rumbled with a hangover, and he really wished he had had the common sense to leave a glass of water within arms reach, because that, at the very least, might help the echoing of each blood pump through his temple or the blinding of the morning sun through the apartment blinds, somehow still bright despite that they were closed.

That was not the first thing he became aware of when he woke up. What really struck him was the form of another man, tangled in his arms.

Arthur was fully clothed, and so was Francis; they hadn’t done anything beyond kissing, but that kissing was needy and desperate and filled with years and years of wanting and deprivation. That, really, must have been the reason it didn’t escalate, because Francis didn’t want sex or anything other than the soft touch of Arthur’s lips. There would, if things had gone as well as Arthur insisted they would between kisses, be plenty of sex once they got back into the rhythm of love and dating. But for now, Francis just wanted to make up for lost time and hidden feelings and loneliness with a gentle, emotionally pleasing touch.

They’d fallen asleep on the couch, with Francis pushed back into the cushions and Arthur curled up on top of his. Their legs were entangled like pasta, and Arthur’s face was tucked into the crook of Francis’ neck. Arthur’s right hand, on the open side of the couch, wrapped up and around the other’s neck, and Francis’ arm followed underneath to wrap around his waist. Their other hands, on the interior of the couch, were still held together, even after the night of sleeping.

Francis kissed the top of the head of the sleeping figure. Maybe things would be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
